The Humble Memoirs of Legolas Thranduilion
by NobodyVIII
Summary: Not much of a title, is it? But to Legolas, one who is soon to leave Middle-earth, this small collection of drabbles contain memories that will otherwise be forgotten-if not stored here. Consider it compensation for leaving the lot of you waiting for nearly five years on Of Chilly Dwarves & An Angry Elf.
1. Chapter 1

My time in Middle-earth is drawing to a swift close. I have seen much-performed many deeds and seen the fall of great men. And yet, I find myself looking back to the smaller, simpler things that I have learned and seen when writing these memoirs. Perhaps they will not be recounted as anything of worth. But to leave them unwritten seems to me a greater evil than to have them merely set aside as anecdotes. So, if the reader will humor me, I will take these few pages to remember. Remember things as they once were. When the fate of the world rested not in the hands of Men-good and noble as they may be. But when all things depended upon the will and never-faltering feet…of a halfling. And his companion.

These are the ramblings of one who is tired…one who has seen and done and wishes to remember. Perhaps also, to forget. Even now, a ship is being constructed to take me from what I have lost on these shores. But all loss stems from the absence of something once held dear. And such memories are always worthy of recounting.

Here follows a small collection of accounts and moments of sentiment…moments that Legolas Thranduilion humbly submits for the record of the ages.


	2. One: Dwarven Song

I have sat in the presence of the finest Elven voices of the age…listened to the laments and ballads of my own people and their illustrious history. In the days when I dwelt in the shelter of my father's trees, song and dance was commonplace: something to accompany feasting, merrymaking, or the changing of seasons. But even amongst the most skilled with song in the Elven court, never have I heard anything like the sound of Dwarven lamentation.

The first time I encountered the bellow of Dwarven bittersweet, musical reflection was on the battlefield, but I had not the time nor attention to listen. It was when I had become part of the fellowship of nine…the company assisting the Ring-bearer on his quest…that I truly experienced the full breadth of a Dwarf in song. For Gimli, my Dwarven companion, would hardly cease in singing when the opportunity or fancy struck him.

Whether be whistling a tune as he walked along or grumbling some unintelligible bawdy round as we camped, Gimli gave me the immediate sense that Dwarves cannot go for any real length of time without hearing the sound of their own voice. Some of the others found his constant growlings pleasant, or at the very least entertaining. A few of us managed to simply hold our tongues and wish for peace. For quite a long while, the knowledge or taste for Dwarven song did not develop within me-for good reason.

That is, until our modest company left the confines of Moria.

It was one particularly chilly evening, when we had all huddled about the warmth and comfort of Sam Gamgee's cooking fire, that I noticed a few had not joined the gathering. The my friend the ranger, now better called Elessar, sat perched a little ways off…puffing at his pipe beneath the darkened shroud of his hood. Thinking. Keeping his steady eyes on the night surrounding us. The son of the steward of Gondor, too, stood at the opposite end of us; surely, in his mind, he felt it better to have eyes on the front and flank. That left myself in the company of the little halflings…who stared with red eyes and swollen lids into the dancing flames. The dwarf was nowhere in sight. We were all bowed low with grief…for Mithrandir, Gandalf, had been lost to us.

A low hum claimed my senses. In a quiet little clearing, just to my left, sat Gimli. His small, black eyes were turned to the starless sky. His fierce features and wiry mess of hair and beard were illuminated in the moon's gentle glow. And for the first time, I was struck by the civility of the stunted creature. Thick, roughened hands lay clasped in his lap as he sat, propped against an aged tree…lost in his own, quiet sadness.

The song began: a slow, droning, longing sound. Full of the pain of loss and the pride of honored memory. I realized, then, that it was not only for Mithrandir that he was singing, but for the countless fallen in the bowels of Moria that he surely must have known. Without warning, a chord within me had been struck. The rest could not hear his lament, for he was some distance off and singing very quietly so as not to be discovered. For a moment, I thought of inviting him to the fire with the thought that he might be comforted in company. But the thought passed quickly. The tone of his voice alone told me that the dwarf wished to be alone…to remember and to forget.

So I sat in silence. Listened to the aching drone of Gimli's song. Even as I sit here with ink and paper, I can hear the haunting melody. Such contrasting tones and yet…they meld and thrive in the most steadfast way. As if, through music, you can see the flames licking at the heart of their underground dwelling…hear the pounding of iron on anvil. Smell the smoke, the sweat…feel the toil. And all it takes is the deep tones of a Dwarven throat in song.

It is something I will find lacking when I pass on to fairer shores.


	3. Two: Gimli, Son of Gloin

Now that I have mentioned him, my Dwarven companion is another item I will not have lost to time if these words remain. For we came through blood and fire as something more akin to brothers than friends. Gimli son of Gloin cannot be forgotten. I intend to take him with me from these shores…if the span of his days allows. I pray that the Valar will be gracious and find favor with me in this, my tacit request.

To understand what an unlikely friendship has been struck between us, the reader must have an understanding of the brooding animosity between both our races. The Dwarves, in my time, had no love for the Elves and the Elves held a deep mistrust within their hearts towards the stunted, bearded people of the mountains. Their ways were, and remain, foreign to many of us…and their raucous, thundering goings and comings only served to set my kin on edge. It is with this frame of mind…this, and a unkind history involving a company of Dwarves in my father's realm which I will not put down here…that I first encountered Gimli.

In the beginning of the Quest which we were chosen to take part in, I found myself ignoring his presence entirely. He spoke too often. He smelled of meat and smoke and was, in every way, lamentably unfitting in my eyes. Often, the loudest voice is the most foolish…or so I was made to believe. And dear Gimli was never quiet. Even a whisper came forth as a harsh growl. Why he was ever asked to join our company was well beyond my comprehension. But as our journey lengthened and hardships multiplied, I began to see that there was more to the stubborn Dwarf than met the eye.

As I mentioned in the previous anecdote, I first began to realize that beneath the ample belly and unmoving exterior there was a thing of gold when I overheard his sorrow in the form of a song. We soon afterwards passed through Lorien, where Gimli found that all the jewels beneath the earth could not surpass the Lady who dwelt there in beauty. His adoration for Galadriel…one I held in such reverence…forged the beginnings of the unwavering bond we now share. We had, at last, common ground on which to stand. As I look back now, I see that we were not so much loathe to stoop to the other's place, but merely ignorant. We did not see what was because we did not _choose_ to see. Grief and understanding loosened our tongues and softened our hardened hearts.

And that was merely the beginning. Many wearisome days and nights of constant travel brought us low. Showed what lay beneath. Small victories, grave defeat, hunger and thirst, the death of our companions…these things made the mettle within us all to be tested. And in everything, Gimli exceeded my expectations. True, he would complain about the simplest of discomforts such as a crust of bread that was just a mite soggy or a plot of ground that didn't suit him. But in the moments that really mattered, when all seemed utterly lost or hopeless, he did not give in to despair. To him, any obstacles in our path did not become obstacles until they stood right before his eyes; he did not trouble with the worrisome task of planning ahead, but took the situations presented as they came…without preconceived notions as to the risks or odds. He merely acted…a trait that I often envy in him.

To look at, he is small-yet sturdy. Proudly built in his own fashion. Ruddy cheeked and red bearded. When in wartime, his firm grip never leaves the handle of his axe, even in resting. In times of peace, you will often find him rocking back and forth, hands held neatly behind his back, whistling a tune. He stomps along rather than walking…due to his small frame and resolute nature, I think. His gate at a run is, I am not too terribly ashamed to say, an amusing spectacle: legs pounding side to side rather than forwards and backwards-galloping along in an avid waddle-all huffing and puffing, and so very unhappy. Even as I write, I cannot help but smile. Oh, how he hated it when the good king Elessar, then a ranger, would shout for the Dwarf to keep up. Gimli's roaring tone would descend to a grumbling growl…strings of profanities and excuses mingling and battling for precedence on his tongue. And so, of course, I goaded him further. Such is the nature of our friendship.

In battle, my stout companion fought with the ferocity of a wounded bear. To come to an end by his axe is not a death I would wish on one lightly. Gimli lives for the fight-not the outcome. In all honesty, I believe that when our fate and the fate of the world had not yet been decided, he did not fear or go about his business without hope. Hope, to him, seems to be a thing neither scorned nor desired. He does not think to hope, for that will not ensure victory. Victory itself is merely a reward for the count of bodies he amasses. The fight-the screams, sweat, and stench-_that_ is what boils his blood. Moment to moment, enemy to enemy. That is all that matters to him while the rest of us must keep our hearts and heads steady if we wish to live to do battle another day. And it is more than duty that drives him, for that is not it. Gimli is _thrilled _at the very mention of getting his 'hands dirty,' so to speak. Time and again whilst in the thick of battle, I could hear his hearty laughter and taunting above the din. I would defend a killing blow…saving my neck by the smallest of fractions, heart pounding in my ears…and over the shoulder of my attacker would be the beaming face of my dear friend, swinging his axe with a challenge on his lips and fire a in his heart.

He is slow to admittance in speech, but not in mind. If in the wrong, he will ho-hum about the error with the air of one who knows better. A rambling list of half-audible excuses may follow. But in the end, through a snide comment or a relinquishment in the eye, he never fails to swallow his pride while maintaining the appearance of it. It is a mastered skill…an unknowing response from much use. His true humility beneath such a fiercely thickened exterior sums up his existence nicely.

Gimli is, and shall remain, one of the dearest things in my life. And I hope that this small tribute and the many acts of valor he committed in the War of the Ring…may hold him fast in the memory of the world.


End file.
